


Jethann, A-Z

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alphabet Meme, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Other, Power Dynamics, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My work-in-progress centered around my favorite non-companion NPC from Dragon Age, Jethann.  Tagged rape/non-con because of prostitution, which is a grey area especially when you're doing it for the reasons that Jeth is.</p><p>There's just something about that world-wise elf that gets me- the mix of 'saucy minx' with 'hardened reprobate,' adding in 'genuinely heartbroken' at Ninette's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Alienage

When he was little, Jethann hated winter the most.

Snow outside, when there was enough of it, insulated them a bit against the wind, but the cold, Maker, the cold. Where the heat from their fire met the snow on the rotting thatch, it melted and dripped inside.

Damp and moldy and none too warm inside, cold cobblestones and ice and packed snow against worn shoes outside. Most of the elves were actually glad to be in the Alienage- better Lowtown than up on the windy bluff, whipped about by the even more piercing winds that blew out to sea.

And when you’re little, you’re always outgrowing the worn shoes, the threadbare jerkin or the oft-mended trousers. Winter is a terrible time to outgrow your shoes.

Kirkwall was on the coast, and people claimed that the winters here were milder, more pleasant because of the sea; Jethann couldn’t imagine it being worse than this.

During the early morning hours, everyone cleaned as best they could, emptying the night bucket into the sewer drain, crusted with frozen waste, fetching clean water from the pump, feeding precious fuel to the small fires that kept them warm. Not every house had a fire, of course; that was far too expensive, and families slept shivering in the cold, waking and dressing with numb fingers to go to the neighbor’s, eight to ten people huddled around a communal fire, their shared breath adding to the damp, pretending to eat something that was more properly drunk, more water than grain, most days.

And although the city elves huddled together, sneering at the thought of their wild cousins out in the thick of the weather, sleeping in carts, at the mercy of bears and wolves and what-have-you, Jethann had always wondered if perhaps it wasn’t so bad, out there. Air crisp and cold, enough wood all around for as big a fire as one wanted, and surely they knew how to find things to eat in the winter, deer or rabbits or berries or roots and things. Not gruel, flavorless, without substance, not the leavings from a noble’s feast, scavenged from the midden if the servants were cruel, or taken with ashamed eyes and mumbled thanks if they were kind. 

No thin walls that smelled of warmed-over piss, or cold, frozen streets, or of watching your mother hand over a few precious copper from the dwindling supply to pay for a jacket more patch than cloth, because you’d outgrown yours. No more watching her leave, that afternoon, and knowing she’d be back in a week or two, smelling of rose oil and shame, with enough coin to keep you and your brother and sisters fed for another month or two, at least until it was warm enough for the traders to resume their regular routes, and where a couple of scrawny elvhen boys could find work unloading goods in the market.

And next winter, when you were left with a fatherless babe only a few months old, your mother freshly dead of the coughing sickness that’d wracked her thin frame, as you held the wailing boy so clearly human, like your sisters, that you want to kill him, want to smash him for killing your mother, want to kill everything for making you the eldest of five and the man of your household, the acting father of your one elvhen brother and your three human siblings, that winter when it is you who make the trek up to Hightown, knowing that at least when you return it won’t be with a babe in your belly-

And two weeks later you return, smelling of rose oil and shame, your pockets full of silver and promises of _more_ if you come back, again, such a pretty boy, so popular, make sure and visit the healer, now-

And you find that your baby brother has died in the night, no one knows why these things happen, and isn’t it for the best, really, and you weep beside the small corpse in the corpse house, the abandoned building where the elves keep the frozen bodies until spring or until someone organizes a funeral procession into Darktown, and you weep, because you wanted him dead for even a second, and now he’s gone, your baby brother, and you want him back, so badly, want to hear those first words or watch him take his first steps, because in the end all you really ever have in the Alienage is family, anyway.


	2. B is for Bought

The first time he went to work at the Rose, Jethann hadn’t been sure what to expect. He was young, small and underfed, hardly an object of passion for anyone. The village elders had discussed him within hearing, briefly, before dismissing his prospects as a husband.

_The son of a whore, and with three to look after already. He’ll be lucky to keep bread in_ their _mouths._

The too-true observance had stung, and although Jeth had been, on the one hand, relieved, because he really _didn’t_ want more mouths to feed, he’d felt somehow shamed on the other.

It wasn’t as if the rest of the Alienage’s prospects were so much better. 

Except that his mother had been a whore, and even with mixed blood his two sisters were clearly human. What elvhen woman wanted to work to feed their very oppressors?

But they were his sisters, and from the time he and Davi had been boys, they’d loved the little girls, looked after them when Mother was gone.

Davi worked the Docks when he could, fetching messages, his presence tolerated by the amused and contemptuous captains. The younger boy dreamed of the sea, spent days learning knots from old sailors, hauling cargo, and begging for a berth, and Jeth knew that one day, Davi simply wouldn’t come home.

Perhaps a few months after that, he might get a letter in the boy’s rough chicken-scratch, but Jeth knew that his brother’s heart had been elsewhere since their mother’s death. Who could blame him?

When Davi left, Jeth’s sisters would be _his_ responsibility, and already he worried about them. How was he to provide for them? No elf would have them in marriage, and few humans either, without a significant dowry.

But those were dreams for _tomorrow_ , to consider when _today_ was done. Somehow it always seemed like _todays_ just kept coming.

And when they’d run out of food, when Hazel had taken sick and the healer had refused to see them without payment, he’d scrubbed, put on his best clothing, and headed to Hightown.

Lusine had looked him over, the scrawny, waifish boy with the stunning blue eyes and milky skin, the red hair that properly washed and cut and combed would compliment his fair coloring. His mother had applied herself to the job, at least, and this one would have the best years of his life to give to it, to reel in lovers and rake in coin before age and disease took him.

“How old are you?” she’d asked, and he’d swallowed before replying quickly “Seventeen.”

She’d snorted in open derison but hadn’t challenged the statement. Fine. He’d be seventeen for the next three or four years, then.

“Virgin?” she asked, and his cheeks stained red with embarrassment. _Lucky lad,_ Lusine noted, _if he learns to do that on cue he’ll have patrons lining up to put the blush in those cheeks._

“All right,” she’d said at last. “I’ll call an auction- virginity in a whorehouse tends to go for high coin. I take seventy percent and you get thirty, but even with that, you’ll have enough to feed you for a month.”

She held his gaze. “Mind you, that’s what your mother did, dropped in and out every so often. Kept her from building up a regular clientele. If you want to make real money, boy, you’ll work six days of seven, with one for rest. Give us a year, and you’ll be pulling a sovereign a day in profit.”

Lusine eyed him suddenly. “No stealing, from the other whores, the clients, or me. We find you thieving and you’ll wish you were dead. Understood?”

Jeth nodded, stomach churning. Not an occasional whore- no, she wanted him to become a regular.

“Also, no preference,” she said. “You work your way up, you can turn down customers as long as I get three sovereigns a day. Until you’re earning that much, you’ll service whoever pays for your time, man, woman, neither, both, elf, dwarf, Guard-Captain Jeven himself, if he wants. Understood?”

He nodded again, shamed and afraid, hungry, desperate.

She nodded. “Fine. Get to the kitchens and fill your belly- food’s free while you’re working. Mattie’ll fetch you for a bath and trim your hair, and I’ll send out invitations to my usual bidders in the meantime. Expect the auction tonight.”

He’d done as she’d asked, quietly terrified, but the lure of a meal was strong, and tomorrow he’d have coin for the healer, food in the house, a few extra blankets and new shoes for his sisters-

And hours later, groomed, perfumed, cheeks scarlet with shame as Lusine ordered him to strip in front of the guarded eyes of strangers, Jeth did as he was bid. For Hazel and for Isobel. For never having to worry where the next meal would come from. For freedom from misery and poverty and the scorn of the elders.

If he was a whore’s son, by the Maker he’d make the most of it.

And when the clink of more coin than he’d ever seen in one place before at last changed hands, he swallowed and followed the stranger off to one of the Rose’s luxurious suites, grateful that no one could see him trembling.


	3. C Is For Carnality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wanted to be so many things, but in the end I cut about half of what I wrote due to issues with flow. The cut material fits better and may resurface in later letters.
> 
> Short and sweet as Jeth learns the basics.

Jeth didn’t know which was harder, living away from home, the casual jibes from the older and more experienced whores, or the _sex_ itself.

One of the first things Lusine drilled into him was that sex was his _job_. “You’re not here to fall in love- you’re here to work. As long as you keep clear on that you’ll do well. Make _them_ fall in love with you, and you’ll have more coin than you know what to do with.”

He’d fumbled his way through the first few encounters, the slyly amused and jaded men and women who’d bought him toying with him, whispered voices telling him where to touch, responding to his inexpert caresses with a passion he didn’t understand, at first. He’d later realize that for some, to teach, to train, to dominate and deflower was what they found most erotic. Much, much later, he’d learn to feign innocent desire with the skill of a master mummer.

But for now, Jeth found himself the plaything of men and women, some of Lusine’s most loyal and wealthy clients, with long-standing agreements that _they_ would have the new and inexperienced for their pleasure.

The first time he’d had a cock in his mouth, minding his teeth and trying to suss out by the man’s moans what was _good_ and what was _amazing_ ; the first time he’d slipped fingers inside a woman and felt her clench around him, her hands in his hair- he hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t known whether he’d find it arousing, or revolting, or whether he’d simply die from _shame_ alone.

But in the end, he’d been unable to separate business from pleasure- they were his customers, yes, but also his lovers, his body responding to the sheer _power_ of a man whispering his name, boy, treasure, _Jeth_ ; to a woman writhing as he filled her again and again, harder, faster, oh _Maker_ yes. 

In his off hours, in the quiet of the barracks, he quietly flipped pages in one book or another, lips moving silently as he read a torrid romance or a musty tome of history. In his on-hours, he read people, the movements and breaths, sighs and murmurs a different kind of knowledge altogether.


	4. D Is For Dalish

It’s not the first unusual request he’s received- in the time he’s worked at the Rose, Jeth has tied a man to the bed, been tied up and very, very lightly whipped by a sweet lady, played out a variety of fantasies, dressed as a woman, brought a man to orgasm with his feet alone- the sheer number of different erotic experiences that entice never fail to interest him.

Sex, intimacy- he’s not sure at times which he’s selling, but it’s so, so much more than a quick, guilty roll between scented sheets than he could have imagined when he started two years ago. Some clients just want to caress, to kiss, to play at love and to talk, to be the person they can’t be in their actual life. Some clients have desires that will never find satisfaction at home, and seek him out in a sort of desperate, guilty relief that their husbands or wives will never see.

But the woman standing before him, costume and paints coming out of the satchel as she chatters away- she’s asked of him something he’s never truly pictured before.

Him- Dalish?

He feels a surge of almost-guilt as the leathers and feathers come on. City elves might dismiss the Dalish as wild rumors, fools and knaves, but there’s also a sense of reverence, elves who’ve never gone to a knee before a human, who consider themselves the equal, if not more, of any _shem_ , a people who cling to traditions long abandoned, and for which the vhenadahl tree is but an approximation.

Arianni says that the Dalish don’t revere real trees the way the City elves do- they follow the path of the Three Trees, whatever that is, but it’s metaphorical, not literal. Her tattoos, exotic, strange, spider-like and fearsome across her face inspire both curiosity and revulsion amongst many, their meanings a mystery and affront to a people who insist, perhaps a little too quickly, that they don’t need the old ways of a defeated race.

But in his off-hours, Jeth has done quite a bit of reading to pass the time, his rudimentary skills developing all out of proportion to the other elves in the Alienage who have neither the leisure nor the books with which to improve. It’s just one more wedge between him and his people, his family, the ones who point and give him a wide berth on his increasingly rare visits home. But some of the books he’s devoured with relish have been about the Dalish, about their respect for the old ways, their Keepers and their warriors, travelling about in their land-ships, beholden to none, proud and free.

He shivers slightly as she paints him to satisfaction, humming slightly, a shame he can’t name making him look away, to be anywhere but here.

“I will _break_ you, elf,” she mutters, and he knows they’ve begun when she backhands him to the floor. It’s not a hard slap, and she’s paying well enough that he can’t complain, but something in him _does_ break when she stands over him voice hard with anger, lust, something that makes him glare at her with wide, suddenly furious sapphire eyes.

“Never,” he hisses, and somehow he’s not playing the game, any more, because the People, his People deserve more than this, more than a derogatory “knife-ear” and a cuff to the ear. He’s helpless against the tide of time and the press of one culture against another, helpless against the shameful knowledge that _he is elf, he is defeated, he is weak, he is the lesser race._ But in this garb, he feels powerful, angry, and when she pulls him to his feet by the borrowed jerkin, it is he that shoves her to the bed, he that will _break_ her, because he is elf, he is Dalish, and never more shall he submit.

They wrestle for control on the bed, teeth and nails and angry words, and he allows her to ride him, hand at his throat, panting and moaning, for less than a minute before he rolls her over, taking the superior position, pounding her into the bed while she screams under him, alternately cursing and urging him on.

She leaves a half-hour later, spent and pleased, a sizeable gratuity on the table for his efforts. “Next time I tie you up, darling,” she purrs before leaving, and he looks away, pale skin gleaming in firelight, bare and prone between scented sheets. 

He knows he’s pleased her, and that she’s likely to return, to fill his pockets with coin for a simple bit of costumery and acting. He could probably even master a bit of the language, a phrase here and there to improve the performance. He will become the Dalish to her, the fantasy of a warrior defeated, captured, bound, taken and defeated, the last of the elves submitting to a mere human.

Jeth stares at the wall, and wonders why this one thing bothers him more than anything else he’s done. When a man takes him hard against a wall, panting “whore” over and over in his ear, it simply reflects _his_ own identity, his submission to his customers. To play Dalish seems a betrayal of an entire people, somehow, and he rubs a manicured hand across his eyes, tired, and resolves to think no more about it.


End file.
